BEFORE the departure of the tailor’s wife there had come to live under theflat occupied by my employers a black-eyed young lady, with her little girland her mother, a gray-haired old woman, everlastingly smoking cigarettesin an amber mouthpiece. The young lady was very beautiful, imperious, andproud. She spoke in a pleasant, deep voice. She looked at every one withhead held high and unblinking eyes, as if they were all far away from her,and she could hardly see them. Nearly every day her black soldier-servant,Tuphyaev, brought a thin-legged, brown horse to the steps of her flat. Thelady came out in a long, steel-colored, velvet dress, wearing white gauntletedgloves and tan boots. Holding the train of her skirt and a whip with a lilac-colored stone in its handle in one hand, with the other little hand shelovingly stroked the horse’s muzzle. He fixed his great eyes upon her,trembling all over, and softly trampled the soaked ground under his hoofs.
“Robaire, Robaire,” she said in a low voice, and patted the beautiful,arched neck of the steed with a firm hand.
Then setting her foot on the knee of Tuphyaev, she sprang lightly into thesaddle, and the horse, prancing proudly, went through the gateway. She satin the saddle as easily as if she were part of it. She was beautiful with thatrare kind of beauty which always seems new and wonderful, and always fillsthe heart with an intoxicating joy. When I looked at her I thought that Dianaof Poitiers, Queen Margot, the maiden La Valliere, and other beauties,heroines of historical novels, were like her.
She was constantly surrounded by the officers of the division which wasstationed in the town, and in the evenings they used to visit her, and play thepiano, violin, guitar, and dance and sing. The most frequent of her visitorswas Major Olessov, who revolved about her on his short legs, stout, red-faced, gray-haired, and as greasy as an engineer on a steamboat. He playedthe guitar well, and bore himself as the humble, devoted servant of the lady.
As radiantly beautiful as her mother was the little five-year-old, curly-haired, chubby girl. Her great, dark-blue eyes looked about her gravely,calmly expectant, and there was an air of thoughtfulness about her whichwas not at all childish.
Her grandmother was occupied with housekeeping from morning tonight, with the help of Tuphyaev, a morose, taciturn man, and a fat, cross-eyed housemaid. There was no nursemaid, and the little girl lived almostwithout any notice being taken of her, playing about all day on the frontsteps or on a heap of planks near them. I often went out to play with her inthe evenings, for I was very fond of her. She soon became used to me, andwould fall asleep in my arms while I was telling her a story. When thishappened, I used to carry her to bed. Before long it came about that shewould not go to sleep, when she was put to bed, unless I went to say goodnight to her. When I went to her, she would hold out her plump hand with agrand air and say :
“Good-by till tomorrow. Grandmother, how ought I to say it?”
“God preserve you!” said the grandmother, blowing a cloud of dark-bluesmoke from her mouth and thin nose.
“God preserve you till tomorrow! And now I am going to sleep,” said thelittle girl, rolling herself up in the bedclothes, which were trimmed with lace.
The grandmother corrected her.
“Not till tomorrow, but for always.”
“But doesn’t tomorrow mean for always?”
She loved the word “tomorrow,” and whatever pleased her specially shecarried forward into the future. She would stick into the ground flowers thathad been plucked or branches that had been broken by the wind, and say :
“Tomorrow this will be a garden.”
“Tomorrow, some time, I shall buy myself a horse, and ride on horsebacklike mother.”
She was a clever child, but not very lively, and would often break off inthe midst of a merry game to become thoughtful, or ask unexpectedly:
“Why do priests have hair like women ?”
If she stung herself with nettles, she would shake her finger at them,saying:
“You wait! I shall pray God to do something vewy bady to you. God cando bad things to every one; He can even punish mama.” Sometimes a soft,serious melancholy descended upon her. She would press close to me, gazingup at the sky with her blue, expectant eyes, and say:
“Sometimes grandmother is cross, but mama never; she on’y laughs.
Every one loves her, because she never has any time. People are alwayscoming to see her and to look at her because she is so beautiful. She is ‘ovely,mama is. ‘Oseph says so — ‘ovely!”
I loved to listen to her, for she spoke of a world of which I knew nothing.
She spoke willingly and often about her mother, and a new life graduallyopened out before me. I was again reminded of Queen Margot, whichdeepened my faith in books and also my interest in life. One day when I wassitting on the steps waiting for my people, who had gone for a walk, and thelittle girl had dozed off in my arms, her mother rode up on horseback, spranglightly to the ground, and, throwing back her head, asked :
“What, is she asleep?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right.”
The soldier Tuphyaev came running to her and took the horse. She stuckher whip into her belt and, holding out her arms, said:
“Give her to me!”
“I’ll carry her in myself.”
“Come on!” cried the lady, as if I had been a horse, and she stamped herfoot on the step.
The little girl woke up, blinking, and, seeing her mother, held out herarms to her. They went away.
I was used to being shouted at, but I did not like this lady to shout at me.
She had only to give an order quietly, and every one obeyed her.
In a few minutes the cross-eyed maid came out for me. The little girl wasnaughty, and would not go to sleep without saying good night.
It was not without pride in my bearing toward the mother that I enteredthe drawing-room, where the little girl was sitting on the knees of hermother, who was deftly undressing her.
“Here he is,” she said. “He has come — this monster.”
“He is not a monster, but my boy.”
“Really? Very good. Well, you would like to give something to your boy,wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I should.”
“A good idea! I will see to it, and you will go to bed.”
“Good-by till tomorrow,” said the little girl, holding out her hand to me.
“God preserve you till to — morrow!”
The lady exclaimed in surprise:
“Who taught you to say that? Grandmother?’
“Ye-es.”
When the child had left the room the lady beckoned to me.
“What shall we give you?”
I told her that I did not want anything; but could she let me have a bookto read?
She lifted my chin with her warm, scented fingers, and asked, with apleasant smile:
“So you are fond of reading? Yes; what books have you read?”
When she smiled she looked more beautiful than ever. I confusedly toldher the names of several books.
“What did you find to like in them?” she asked, laying her hand on thetable and moving her fingers slightly.
A strong, sweet smell of some sort of flowers came from her, mixed withthe odor of horse-sweat. She looked at me through her long eyelashes,thoughtfully grave. No one had ever looked at me like that before.
The room was packed as tightly as a bird’s nest with beautiful, softfurniture. The windows were covered with thick green curtains; the snowywhite tiles of the stove gleamed in the half-light; beside the stove shone theglossy surface of a black piano; and from the walls, in dull-gold frames,looked dark writings in large Russian characters. Under each writing hung alarge dark seal by a cord. Everything about her looked at that woman ashumbly and timidly as I did.
I explained to her as well as I could that my life was hard anduninteresting and that reading helped me to forget it.
“Yes; so that’s what it is,” she said, standing up. “It is not a bad idea, and,in fact, it is quite right. Well, what shall we do? I will get some books for you,but just now I have none. But wait! You can have this one.”
She took a tattered book with a yellow cover from the couch.
“When you have read this I will give you the second volume; there arefour.”
I went away with the “Secrets of Peterburg,” by Prince Meshtcheski, andbegan to read the book with great attention. But before I had read manypages I saw that the Peterburgian “secrets” were considerably less interestingthan those of Madrid, Lon — don, or Paris. The only part which took myfancy was the fable of Svoboda (Liberty) and Palka (stick).
“I am your superior,” said Svoboda, “because I am cleverer.”
But Palka answered her:
“No, it is I who am your superior, because I am stronger than you.”
They disputed and disputed and fought about it. Palka beat Svoboda,and, if I remember rightly, Svoboda died in the hospital as the result of herinjuries.
There was some talk of nihilists in this book. I remember that, accordingto Prince Meshtcheski, a ni — hilist was such a poisonous person that hisvery glance would kill a fowl. What he wrote about nihilists struck me asbeing offensive and rude, but I un derstood nothing else, and fell into a stateof melan — choly. It was evident that I could not appreciate good books; for Iwas convinced that it was a good book. Such a great and beautiful lady couldnever read bad books.
“Well, did you like it?” she asked me when I took back the yellow novelby Meshtcheski.
I found it very hard to answer no ; I thought it would make her angry.
But she only laughed, and going behind the portiere which led into hersleeping-chamber, brought back a little volume in a binding of dark — bluemorocco leather.
“You will like this one, only take care not to soil it.”
This was a volume of Pushkin’s poems. I read all of them at once, seizingupon them with a feeling of greed such as I experienced whenever Ihappened to visit a beautiful place that I had never seen before. I alwaystried to run all over it at once. It was like roaming over mossy hillocks in amarshy wood, and suddenly seeing spread before one a dry plain coveredwith flowers and bathed in sunrays. For a second one gazes upon itenchanted, and then one begins to race about happily, and each contact ofone’s feet with the soft growth of the fertile earth sends a thrill of joy throughone.
Pushkin had so surprised me with the simplicity and music of poetry thatfor a long time prose seemed unnatural to me, and it did not come easy toread it. The prologue to “Ruslan” reminded me of grandmother’s best stories,all wonderfully compressed into one, and several lines amazed me by theirstriking truth.
There, by ways which few observe, Are the trails of invisible wildcreatures.
I repeated these wonderful words in my mind, and I could see thosefootpaths so familiar to me, yet hardly visible to the average being. I saw themysterious footprints which had pressed down the grass, which had not hadtime to shake off the drops of dew, as heavy as mercury. The full, soundinglines of poetry were easily remembered. They adorned everything of whichthey spoke as if for a festival. They made me happy, my life easy andpleasant. The verses rang out like bells heralding me into a new life. Whathappiness it was to be educated!
The magnificent stories of Pushkin touched me more closely, and weremore intelligible to me than anything I had read. When I had read them afew times I knew them by heart, and when I went to bed I whispered theverses to myself, with my eyes closed, until I fell asleep. Very often I toldthese stories to the orderlies, who listened and laughed, and abused mejokingly. Sidorov stroked my head and said softly:
“That’s fine, isn’t it? O Lord —”
The awakening which had come to me was noticed by my employers. Theold lady scolded me.
“You read too much, and you have not cleaned the samovar for four days,you young monkey! I shall have to take the rolling-pin to you — ”
What did I care for the rolling-pin? I took refuge in verses.
Loving black evil with all thy heart, O old witch that thou art!
The lady rose still higher in my esteem. See what books she read! Shewas not like the tailor’s porcelain wife.
When I took back the book, and handed it to her with regret, she said ina tone which invited confidence :
“Did you like it? Had you heard of Pushkin before?”
I had read something about the poet in one of the newspapers, but Iwanted her to tell me about him, so I said that I had never heard of him.
Then she briefly told me the life and death of Pushkin, and asked,smiling like a spring day:
“Do you see how dangerous it is to love women?”
All the books I had read had shown me it was really dangerous, but alsopleasant, so I said :
“It is dangerous, yet every one falls in love. And women suffer for love,too.”
She looked at me, as she looked at every one, through her lashes, andsaid gravely:
“You think so? You understand that? Then the best thing I can wish youis that you may not forget it.”
And then she asked me what verses I liked best.
I began to repeat some from memory, with gesticulations. She listenedsilently and gravely, then rose, and, walking up and down the room, saidthoughtfully:
“We shall have to have you taught, my little wild animal. I must thinkabout it. ,Your employers — are they relatives of yours ?”
When I answered in the affirmative she exclaimed: “Oh!” as if sheblamed me for it.
She gave me “The Songs of Beranger,” a special edition with engravings,gilt edges, and a red leather binding. These songs made me feel giddy, withtheir strange mixture of bitter grief and boisterous happiness.
With a cold chill at my heart I read the bitter words of “The Old Beggar.”
Homeless worm, have I disturbed you?
Crush me under your feet!
Why be pitiful ? Crush me quickly!
Why is it that you have never taught me,Nor given me an outlet for my energy?
From the grub an ant might have come.
I might have died in the love of my fellows.
But dying as an old tramp,I shall be avenged on the world!
And directly after this I laughed till I cried over the “Weeping Husband.”
I remembered especially the words of Beranger:
A happy science of lifeIs not hard for the simple.
Beranger aroused me to moods of joyfulness, to a desire to be saucy, andto say something rude to people, — rude, sharp words. In a very short time Ihad become proficient in this art. His verses I learned by heart, and recitedthem with pleasure to the orderlies, running into the kitchen, where they satfor a few minutes at a time.
But I soon had to give this up because the lines,But such a hat is not becoming To a young girl of seventeen, gave rise toan offensive conversation about girls that made me furiously disgusted, and Ihit the soldier Ermokhin over the head with a saucepan. Sidorov and theother orderlies tore me away from his clumsy hands, but I made up my mindfrom that time to go no more to the officers’ kitchen.
I was not allowed to walk about the streets. In fact, there was no time forit, since the work had so increased. Now, in addition to my usual duties ashousemaid, yardman, and errand-boy, I had to nail calico to wide boards,fasten the plans thereto, and copy calculations for my master’s architecturalwork. I also had to verify the contractor’s accounts, for my master workedfrom morning to night, like a machine.
At that time the public buildings of the Yarmarka 5 were private property.
Rows of shops were built very rapidly, and my master had the contracts forthe reconstruction of old shops and the erection of new ones. He drew upplans for the rebuilding of vaults, the throwing out of a dormer-window, andsuch changes. I took the plans to an old architect, together with an envelop inwhich was hidden paper money to the value of twenty-five rubles. Thearchitect took the money, and wrote under the plans: “The plans are correct,and the inspection of the work has been performed by me. Imraik.” As amatter of fact, he had not seen the original of the plans, and he could notinspect the work, as he was always obliged to stay at home by reason of hismalady.
5 Market-place.
I used to take bribes to the inspector of the Yarmarka and to othernecessary people, from whom I re — ceived what the master called papers,which permitted all kinds of illegalities. For this service I obtained the rightto wait for my employers at the door on the front steps when they went out tosee their friends in the evenings. This did not often happen, but when it did,they never returned until after midnight. I used to sit at the top of the steps,or on the heap of planks opposite them, for hours, looking into the windowsof my lady’s flat, thirstily listening to the gay conversation and the music.
The windows were open. Through the curtains and the screen of flowersI could see the fine figures of officers moving about the room. The rotundmajor waddled about, and she floated about, dressed with astonishingsimplicity, but beautifully.
In my own mind I called her “Queen Margot.”
“This is the gay life that they write about in French books,” I thought,looking in at the window. And I always felt rather sad about it. A childishjealousy made it painful for me to see “Queen Margot” surrounded by men,who buzzed about her like bees over flowers.
Her least-frequent visitor was a tall, unhappy-looking officer, with afurrowed brow and deep-sunken eyes, who always brought his violin withhim and played marvelously — so marvelously that the passers-by used tostop under the window, and all the dwellers in the street used to gatherround. Even my employers, if they happened to be at home, would open thewindow, listen, and praise. I never remember their praising any one elseexcept the subdeacon of the cathedral, and I knew that a fish-pie was morepleasing to them than any kind of music.
Sometimes this officer sang, or recited verses in a muffled voice, sighingstrangely and pressing his hand to his brow. Once when I was playing underthe window with the little girl and “Queen Margot” asked him to sing, herefused for a long time. Then he said clearly:
“Only a song has need of beauty, While beauty has no need of songs.”
I thought these lines were lovely, and for some reason I felt sorry for theofficer.
What I liked best was to look at my lady when she sat at the piano, alonein the room, and played. Music intoxicated me, and I could see nothing butthe window, and beyond that, in the yellow light of the lamp, the finelyformed figure of the woman, with her haughty profile and her white handshovering like birds over the keys. I gazed at her, listened to the plaintivemusic, and dreamed. If I could find some treasure, I would give it all to her,so that she should be rich. If I had been Skobelev, I would have declared waron the Turks again. I would have taken money for ransoms, and built a housefor her on the Otkossa, the best site in the whole town, and made her apresent of it. If only she would leave this street, where every one talkedoffensively about her. The neighbors, the servants belonging to our yard, andmy employers more than all spoke about “Queen Margot” as evilly andspitefully as they had talked about the tailor’s wife, though more cautiously,with lowered voices, and looking about them as they spoke.
They were afraid of her, probably because she was the widow of a verydistinguished man. The writings on the walls of her rooms, too, wereprivileges be — stowed on her husband’s ancestors by the old Russianemperors Goudonov, Alexei, and Peter the Great. This was told me by thesoldier Tuphyaev, a man of education, who was always reading the gospels.
Or it may have been that people were afraid lest she should thrash them withher whip with the lilac-colored stone in the handle. It was said that she hadonce struck a person of position with it.
But words — uttered under the breath are no better than words utteredaloud. My lady lived in a cloud of enmity — an enmity which I could notunderstand and which, tormented me.
Now that I knew there was another life; that there were different people,feelings, and ideas, this house and all its tenants aroused in me a feeling ofdisgust that oppressed me more and more. It was entangled in the meshes ofa dirty net of disgraceful tittle-tattle, there was not a single person in it ofwhom evil was not spoken. The regimental chaplain, though he was ill andmiserable, had a reputation for being a drunkard and a rake ; the officers andtheir wives were living, according to my employers, in a state of sin; thesoldiers’ conversation about women, which ran on the same lines, hadbecome repulsive to me. But my employers disgusted me most of all. I knewtoo well the real value of their favorite amusement, namely, the mercilessjudgment of other people. Watching and com menting on the crimes ofothers was the only amuse — ment in which they could indulge withoutpaying for it. They amused themselves by putting those about them verballyon the rack, and, as it were, revenged themselves on others because theylived so piously, laboriously, and uninterestingly themselves.
When they spoke vilely about “Queen Margot” I was seized by aconvulsion of feeling which was not childish at all. My heart swelled withhatred for the backbiters. I was overcome by an irresistible desire to do harmto every one, to be insolent, and sometimes a flood of tormenting pity formyself and every one else swept over me. That dumb pity was more painfulthan hatred.
I knew more about my queen than they did, and I was always afraid thatthey would find out what I knew.
On Sundays, when my employers had gone to the cathedral for highmass, I used to go to her the first thing in the morning. She would call meinto her bedroom, and I sat in a small armchair, upholstered in gold-coloredsilk, with the little girl on my knee, and told the mother about the books Ihad read. She lay in a wide bed, with her cheek resting on her small hands,which were clasped together. Her body was hidden under a counterpane,gold in color, like everything else in the bedroom ; her dark hair lay in a plaitover her swarthy shoulder and her breast, and sometimes fell over the side ofthe bed till it touched the floor.
As she listened to me she looked into my face with her soft eyes and ahardly perceptible smile and said:
“That’s right.”
Even her kind smile was, in my eyes, the condescending smile of aqueen. She spoke in a deep, tender voice, and it seemed to me that it saidalways :
“I know that I am immeasurably above all other people ; no one of themis necessary to me.”
Sometimes I found her before her mirror, sitting in a low chair and doingher hair, the ends of which lay on her knees, over the arms, and back of thechair, and fell almost to the floor. Her hair was as long and thick asgrandmother’s. She put on her stockings in my presence, but her cleannudity aroused in me no feeling of shame. I had only a joyful feeling of pridein her. A flowerlike smell always came from her, protecting her from any evilthoughts concerning her.
I felt sure that the love of the kitchen and the pantry was unknown toQueen Margot. She knew something different, a higher joy, a different kindof love.
But one day, late in the afternoon, on going into her drawing-room, Iheard from the bedroom the ringing laugh of the lady of my heart. Amasculine voice said:
“Wait a minute! Good Lord! I can’t believe — ” I ought to have goneaway. I knew that, but I could not.
“Who is that?” she asked. “You? Come in!” The bedroom was heavy withthe odor of flowers. It was darkened, for the curtains were drawn. QueenMargot lay in bed, with the bedclothes drawn up to her chin, and beside her,against the wall, sat, clad only in his shirt, with his chest bared, the officerviolinist. On his breast was a scar which lay like a red streak from the rightshoulder to the nipple and was so vivid that even in the half-light I could seeit distinctly. The hair of the officer was ruffled comically, and for the firsttime I saw a smile on his sad, furrowed countenance. He was smilingstrangely. His large, feminine eyes looked at the “queen” as if it were the firsttime he had gazed upon her beauty.
“This is my friend,” said Queen Margot. I did not know whether she werereferring to me or to him.
“What are you looking so frightened about?” I heard her voice as if froma distance. “Come here.”
When I went to her she placed her hands on my bare neck and said :
“You will grow up and you will be happy. Go along!”
I put the book on the shelf, took another, and went away as best I could.
Something seemed to grate in my heart. Of course I did not think for amoment that my queen loved as other women nor did the officer give mereason to think so. I saw his face before me, with that smile. He was smilingfor joy, like a child who has been pleasantly surprised, and his sad face waswonderfully transfigured. He had to love her. Could any one not love her?
And she also had cause to bestow her love upon him generously. He playedso wonderfully, and could quote poetry so touchingly.
But the very fact that I had to find these consolations showed me clearlythat all was not well with my attitude toward what I had seen or even towardQueen Margot herself. I felt that I had lost something, and I lived for severaldays in a state of deep dejection. One day I was turbulently and recklesslyinsolent, and when I went to my lady for a book, she said to me sternly:
“You seem to be a desperate character from what I have heard. I did notknow that.”
I could not endure this, and I began to explain how nauseating I foundthe life I had to lead, and how hard it was for me to hear people speaking illof her. Standing in front of me, with her hand on my shoulder, she listened atfirst attentively and seriously; but soon she was laughing and pushing meaway from her gently.
“That will do; I know all about it. Do you understand? I know.”
Then she took both my hands and said to me very tenderly :
“The less attention you pay to all that, the better for you. You wash yourhands very badly.”
She need not have said this. If she had had to clean the brasses, andwash the floor and the dirty cloths, her hands would not have been any betterthan mine, I think.
“When a person knows how to live, he is slandered; they are jealous ofhim. And if he doesn’t know how to live, they despise him,” she saidthoughtfully, drawing me to her, and looking into my eyes with a smile. “Doyou love me?”
“Yes.”
“Very much?”
“Yes.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thank you! You are a good boy. I like people to love me.” She smiled,looked as if she were going to say something more, but remained silent, stillkeeping me in her arms. “Come oftener to see me; come whenever you can.”
I took advantage of this, and she did me a lot of good. After dinner myemployers used to lie down, and I used to run downstairs. If she was athome, I would stay with her for an hour and sometimes even longer.
“You must read Russian books; you must know all about Russian life.”
She taught me, sticking hair-pins into her fragrant hair with rosy fingers.
And she enumerated the Russian authors, adding:
“Will you remember them?”
She often said thoughtfully, and with an air of slight vexation:
“We must have you taught, and I am always forgetting. Ach, my God!”
After sitting with her, I ran downstairs with a new book in my hands,feeling as if I had been washed inside.
I had already read Aksakov’s “Family Chronicle,” the glorious Russianpoem “In the Forests,” the amazing “Memoirs of a Hunter,” several volumesof Greb — enkov and Solugub, and the poetry of Venevitinov, Odoevski, andTutchev. These books laved my soul, washing away the husks of barren andbitter reality. I felt that these were good books, and realized that they wereindispensable to me. One result of reading them was that I gained a firmconviction that I was not alone in the world, and the fact that I should not belost took root in my soul.
When grandmother came to see me I used to tell her joyfully aboutQueen Margot, and she, taking a pinch of snuff with great enjoyment, saidheartily:
Well, well; that is very nice. You see, there are plenty of good peopleabout. You only have to look for them, and then you will find them.”
And one day she suggested:
“How would it be if I went to her and said thank you for what she doesfor you?”
“No; it is better not.”
“Well, if you don’t want me to Lord! Lord! how good it all is! I would liketo go on living for ever and ever!”
Queen Margot never carried out her project of having me taught, for anunpleasant affair happened on the feast of the Holy Trinity that nearlyruined me.
Not long before the holiday my eyelids became terribly swollen, and myeyes were quite closed up. My employers were afraid that I should go blind,and I also was afraid. They took me to the well-known doctor, GenrikhRodzevich, who lanced my eyelids and for days I lay with my eyes bandaged,in tormenting, black misery. The day before the feast of the Trinity mybandages were taken off, and I walked about once more, feeling as if I hadcome back from a grave in which I had been laid alive. Nothing can be moreterrible than to lose one’s sight. It is an unspeakable injury which takes awaya hundred worlds from a man.
The joyful day of the Holy Trinity arrived, and, as an invalid, I was offduty from noon and went to the kitchen to pay a visit to the orderlies. All ofthem, even the strict Tuphyaev, were drunk, and toward evening Ermokhinstruck Sidorov on the head with a block of wood. The latter fell senseless tothe ground, and Ermokhin, terrified, ran out to the causeway.
An alarming rumor that Sidorov had been murdered soon spread overthe yard. People gathered on the steps and looked at the soldier stretchedmotionless across the threshold. There were whispers that the police oughtto be sent for, but no one went to fetch them, and no one could be persuadedto touch the soldier.
Then the washerwoman Natalia Kozlovski, in a new, blue frock, with awhite neckerchief, appeared on the scene. She pushed the people asideangrily, went into the entrance passage, squatted down, and said loudly:
“Fools! He is alive! Give me some water!”
They began to protest.
“Don’t meddle with what is not your business!”
“Water, I tell you!” she cried, as if there were a fire. She lifted her newfrock over her knees in a businesslike manner, spread out her underskirt,and laid the soldier’s bleeding head on her knees.
The crowd dispersed, disapproving and fearful.
In the dim light of the passage I could see the eyes of the washerwomanfull of tears, flashing angrily in her white, round face. I took her a pail ofwater, and she ordered me to throw it over the head and breast of Sidorovwith the caution:
“Don’t spill it over me. I am going to pay a visit to some friends.”
The soldier came to himself, opened his dull eyes, and moaned.
“Lift him up,” said Natalia, holding him under the armpits with herhands outstretched lest he should soil her frock. We carried the soldier intothe kitchen and laid him on the bed. She wiped his face with a wet cloth, andwent away, saying:
“Soak the cloth in water and hold it to his head. I will go and find thatfool. Devils! I suppose they won’t be satisfied until they have drunkthemselves into *.”
She went out, after slipping her soiled under-petticoat to the floor,flinging it into a corner and carefully smoothing out her rustling, crumpledfrock.
Sidorov stretched himself, hiccupped, sighed. Warm drops of thick bloodfell on my bare feet from his head. This was unpleasant, but I was toofrightened to move my feet away from those drops.
It was bitter. The sun shone festively out in the yard; the steps of thehouses and the gate were decorated with young birch; to each pedestal weretied freshly cut branches of maple and mountain ash. The whole street wasgay with foliage; everything was young, new. Ever since the morning I hadfelt that the spring holiday had come to stay, and that it had made lifecleaner, brighter, and happier.
The soldier was sick. The stifling odor of warm vodka and green onionfilled the kitchen. Against the window were pressed dull, misty, broad faces,with flattened noses, and hands held against their cheeks, which made themlook hideous.
The soldier muttered as he recollected himself:
“What happened to me? Did I fall, Ermokhin? Go-o-od comrade!” Thenhe began to cough, wept drunken tears, and groaned, “My little sister! mylittle sister!”
He stood up, tottering, wet. He staggered, and, falling back heavily uponthe bed, said, rolling his eyes strangely:
“They have quite killed me!”
This struck me as funny.
“What the devil are you laughing at?” he asked, looking at me dully.
“What is there to laugh at? I am killed forever!”
He began to hit out at me with both hands, muttering :
“The first time was that of Elias the prophet; the second time, St. Georgeon his steed; the third — Don’t come near me! Go away, wolf!”
“Don’t be a fool!” I said.
He became absurdly angry, roared, and stamped his feet.
“I am killed, and you — ”
With his heavy, slow, dirty hand he struck me in the eyes. I set up a howl,and blindly made for the yard, where I ran into Natalia leading Ermokhin bythe arm, crying: “Come along, horse! What is the matter with you?” sheasked, catching hold of me.
“He has come to himself.”
“Come to himself, eh?” she drawled in amazement. And drawingErmokhin along, she said, “Well, werwolf, you may thank your God for this!”
I washed my eyes with water, and, looking through the door of thepassage, saw the soldiers make their peace, embracing each other and crying.
Then they both tried to embrace Natalia, but she hit out at them, shouting :
“Take your paws off me, curs! What do you take me for? Make haste andget to sleep before your masters come home, or there will be trouble for you!”
She made them lie down as if they were little children, the one on thefloor, the other on the pallet — bed, and when they began to snore, came outinto the porch.
“I am in a mess, and I was dressed to go out visiting, too! Did he hityou”? What a fool! That’s what it does — vodka! Don’t drink, little fellow,never drink.”
Then I sat on the bench at the gate with her, and asked how it was thatshe was not afraid of drunken people.
“I am not afraid of sober people, either. If they come near me, this iswhat they get!” She showed me her tightly clenched, red list. “My deadhusband was also given to drink too much, and once when he was drunk Itied his hands and feet. When he had slept it off, I gave him a birching for hishealth. ‘Don’t drink; don’t get drunk when you are married,’ I said. ‘Yourwife should be your amusement, and not vodka.’ Yes, I scolded him until Iwas tired, and after that he was like wax in my hands.”
“You are strong,” I said, remembering the woman Eve, who deceivedeven God Himself.
Natalia replied, with a sigh:
“A woman needs more strength than a man. She has to have strengthenough for two, and God has bestowed it upon her. Man is an unstablecreature.”
She spoke calmly, without malice, sitting with her arms folded over herlarge bosom, resting her back against the fence, her eyes fixed sadly on thedusty gutter full of rubbish. Listening to her clever talk, I forgot all about thetime. Suddenly I saw my master coming along arm in arm with the mistress.
They were walking slowly, pompously, like a turkey-cock with his hen, and,looking at us attentively, said something to each other.
I ran to open the front door for them, and as she came up the steps themistress said to me, venomously :
“So you are courting the washerwoman? Are you learning to carry onwith ladies of that low class ?”
This was so stupid that it did not even annoy me but I felt offended whenthe master said, laughing:
“What do you expect? It is time.”
The next morning when I went into the shed for the wood I found anempty purse, in the square hole which was made for the hook of the door. AsI had seen it many times in the hands of Sidorov I took it to him at once.
“Where is the money gone?” he asked, feeling inside the purse with hisfingers. “Thirty rubles there were! Give them here!”
His head was enveloped in a turban formed of a towel. Looking yellowand wasted, he blinked at me angrily with his swollen eyes, and refused tobelieve that I had found the purse empty.
Ermokhin came in and backed him up, shaking his head at me.
“It is he who has stolen it. Take him to his master. Soldiers do not stealfrom soldiers.”
These words made me think that he had stolen the money himself andhad thrown the purse into my shed. I called out to his face, withouthesitation:
“Liar! You stole it yourself!”
I was convinced that I had guessed right when I saw his wooden facedrawn crooked with fear and rage. As he writhed, he cried shrilly :
“Prove it!”
How could I prove it? Ermokhin dragged me, with a shout, across theyard. Sidorov followed us, also shouting. Several people put their heads outof the windows. The mother of Queen Margot looked on, smoking calmly. Irealized that I had fallen in the esteem of my lady, and I went mad.
I remember the soldiers dragging me by the arms and my employersstanding before them, sympathetically agreeing with them, as they listenedto the com plaint. Also the mistress saying:
“Of course he took it! He was courting the washerwoman at the gate lastevening, and he must have had some money. No one gets anything from herwithout money.”
“That’s true,” cried Ermokhin.
I was swept off my feet, consumed by a wild rage. I began to abuse themistress, and was soundly beaten.
But it was not so much the beating which tortured me as the thought ofwhat my Queen Margot was now thinking of me. How should I ever setmyself right in her eyes? Bitter were my thoughts in that dreadful time. I didnot strangle myself only because I had not the time to do so.
Fortunately for me, the soldiers spread the story over the whole yard, thewhole street, and in the evening, as I lay in the attic, I heard the loud voice ofNatalia Kozlovski below.
“No! Why should I hold my tongue? No, my dear fellow, get away! Getalong with you! Go away, I say! If you don’t, I will go to your gentleman, andhe will give you something!”
I felt at once that this noise was about me. She was shouting near oursteps ; her voice rang out loudly and triumphantly.
“How much money did you show me yesterday? Where did you get itfrom? Tell us!”
Holding my breath with joy, I heard Sidorov drawl sadly :
“Ate, aze! Ermokhin — ”
“And the boy has had the blame for it? He has been beaten for it, eh?”
I felt like running down to the yard, dancing there for joy, kissing thewasherwoman out of gratitude; but at that moment, apparently from thewindow, my mistress cried:
“The boy was beaten because he was insolent. No one believed that hewas a thief except you, you slut!”
“Slut yourself, madam! You are nothing better than a cow, if you willpermit me to say so.”
I listened to this quarrel as if it were music. My heart burned with hottears of self-pity, and gratitude to Natalia. I held my breath in the effort tokeep them back.
Then the master came slowly up to the attic, sat on a projecting beamnear me, and said, smoothing his hair:
“Well, brother Pyeshkov, and so you had nothing to do with it?”
I turned my face away without speaking.
“All the same, your language was hideous,” he went on. I announcedquietly:
“As soon as I can get up I shall leave you.”
He sat on in silence, smoking a cigarette. Looking fixedly at its end, hesaid in a low voice :
“What of it? That is your business. You are not a little boy any longer;you must look about and see what is the best thing for yourself.”
Then he went away. As usual, I felt sorry for him.
Four days after this I left that house. I had a passionate desire to saygood-by to Queen Margot, but I had not the audacity to go to her, though Iconfess I thought that she would have sent for me herself.
When I bade good-by to the little girl I said:
“Tell your mother that I thank her very much, will you?”
“Yes, I will,” she promised, and she smiled lovingly and tenderly. “Goodby till tomorrow, eh? Yes?”
I met her again twenty years later, married to an officer in thegendarmerie.
